


More Than Two Truths and a Lie

by BlackEyedGirl



Category: Catch Me If You Can (2002)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Trust, Truths and Lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackEyedGirl/pseuds/BlackEyedGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Truth doesn’t come easily to Frank, and Carl can’t lie even when he should. Despite that (maybe because of it) they make their new partnership work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Two Truths and a Lie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Floranna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Floranna/gifts).



> With many thanks to snowynight for the beta read-through.

1976

“Why do you think you stopped running?” Carl asks him one night, when the two of them are working late in the office.

“Not ‘why did I stop’,” Frank notes. “Why do I think I stopped?”

“Yes,” Carl says, without apology.

“You don’t think I know?”

“What you know and what you think you know are two different things. I’m more likely to get an honest answer looking for the second.”

Frank shrugs that off. Carl still assumes that Frank is lying approximately twenty per cent of the time, which is probably more or less right. The question, as ever, is knowing which twenty per cent.

 

*

1969

“Why did you run?” Carl says. He looks at the kid, huddled in the other side of the car. “You must have known we’d catch you.” Frank had run straight to his mother’s house – the very first place anyone would look. Or the first place Carl and his team would look now, with Frank’s father gone.

Frank asks, “You really don’t know?”

“Let’s pretend that I don’t.”

“Where would you go?”

“If I was trying to escape from federal custody? I wouldn’t, Frank. I would know that they’d catch me. And it doesn’t look good, having an attempted escape on your record. Two already, in your case.”

“It’s enough,” Frank says. “That was enough. I just needed- I’m done.”

“Forgive me if I don’t take your word on that.”

Frank closes his eyes, breathing more easily now they’re farther away from his mother’s new home. “I don’t have anywhere else to run to. There’s no one else.”

From what Carl knows about Frank – and he has spent a long time now learning every little thing he can – it was never really about the ‘to’ with him. The biggest reason he evaded capture for so long was that he never stayed in one place. The times they got close to him, and the times they caught him, it was because of the attachments: the fiancée, the letters to his father, the connection to his mother with Montrichard.

Carl remembers, abruptly, Christmas Eve 1966 and Frank’s voice tired down the telephone line. ‘I want it to be over.’ Carl had doubted that even then, and now, when Frank has nothing to tie him down and no home to go to, Carl is going to keep both eyes on the kid ‘til he’s safely behind bars.

He still softens his voice when he says, “It’s over now. You can stop.”

 

*

1974

“Here’s the thing I don’t understand.” Carl drops into the extra chair in Frank’s office.

“All right.”

“Three years passing bad cheques and impersonating lawyers and doctors, and no one has a bad word to say about you. Everybody loves you.”

“Except the French.”

“Yes, well all right, obviously except the French. Inspector Luc still calls me up to let me know what an idiot I am allowing you out into the world. And my French is a little rusty but I don’t think ‘idiot’ is the word he’s using. Still, other than them.”

“Everybody loves me,” Frank prompts.

“Yes. Or they did, before I let you loose on the new transfers. Whereupon I get nothing but complaints. So here’s the thing I don’t understand: why doesn’t the real you know how to do that charm thing on these people?”

“Was it Ferris?”

“Was what Ferris?”

“Who complained.”

“It was,” Carl says. “He maintained that you were lying to them to make them look bad.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I know. I explained that I had actually been around for the thing with the deposit box, so that was most definitely true. He thinks I’m a liar now too.”

Frank laughs. “Carl, you never lie.”

“I never lie to you, but I don’t think you being the one to tell Ferris that is going to help our case.”

“Probably not.”

 

*

1973

Carl doesn’t lie. But Carl stands in front of his boss, and then the assistant attorney general and says, “He’s not a flight risk.”

“And if you’re wrong? If he runs?”

“He won’t.”

“Carl-.”

“I’ll take full responsibility.”

That part, at least, is true.

Carl says, “Come with me and see him.”

Carl has done a cost-benefit analysis and has decided that Frank is worth more to him sitting in the spare office in their bullpen, with the chance that he runs the first chance he gets, than blank-faced in Atlanta Maximum Security delivering the mail.

Carl is not reckless - he doesn’t like to take unnecessary risks. But he chased this kid from one side of this country to the other and then the whole way to France. Frank isn’t a case any more, and Carl has other things to concern himself with. He thinks of all the times his career was almost ended in his pursuit of Frank, the millions of pounds Frank stole without a thought, and the way that Carl is not convinced that he regrets anything other than the prison sentence.

Still, if there was a way to detangle himself from Frank, Carl passed that point a long time ago. Frank is the only one who cares about this as much as he does.

 

*

1971

That first year, he had still been angry, enough to roll his eyes when Carl wished him Merry Christmas through the glass.

The second year, visiting hours were nearly over and there had been no one. Carl was the only person who would think to come here to see Frank on Christmas Eve. Frank relented and used his phone privileges to call the FBI office where Carl must surely be, if he wasn't here. The phone rang and rang with no answer.

Two minutes before time, and a guard had called Frank over. “Visitor.”

Frank looks at Carl through the glass. “Merry Christmas.”

The guard walks past and reminds Carl, “A couple of minutes.”

Carl waves his badge. “I need a little longer. Check with your supervisor.” He looks at Frank. “Am I late?”

Frank shrugs. “I wasn't sure you were coming.”

Carl rubs the back of his hand over his mouth. “I was stuck in Miami. Getting a present for you, as it happens. Take a look at this.” He presses a crisp cheque to the glass.

Frank looks at it. “This is something new.” He smiles: he doesn’t get a lot of new in here.

“We think so.” Carl settles down in his seat, his focus all on Frank. “Can you tell me anything about it?”

 

*

1975

Carl comes into the office to find ten of them in the conference room, watching Frank. This can’t be good. Frank grins at him when he walks through the door. “Two truths and a lie, Carl. Think fast.”

“Sorry?”

Fox rolls his eyes but says, “Frank thinks we need to learn to be better liars.”

“I didn’t say that.” Frank is perched on the edge of the desk, a pile of shredded paper beside him. Carl doesn’t need to look to see the bottle those labels were pulled from. Frank says, “I said they needed to learn to understand lying better.”

“Is this about the deposit box again?”

“Only as a byproduct. You guys always come about this the wrong way. You think you’re dealing with masterminds and most of the time you’re not. They have access, or an opportunity presents itself, or they’re desperate. And most of those people you catch right away but for a few, they figure out what they’re good at before you catch them being bad.”

Carl asks the question, because the pause has been left for him. “And what are they good at?”

Frank leans forward. “Everyone thinks a conman has to look good at what they’re pretending to be. That’s not true. All you have to do is be convincingly bad. I was a terrible lawyer, and a doctor, and I was terrified that one day they were going to give me control of a plane, but I never had to be good at those things. There are millions of terrible lawyers and incompetent doctors out there in the world.”

Amdursky laughs. “There’s a cheerful thought.”

“You were good at forging cheques though.” This is something of an understatement, but Carl thinks it should be addressed.

“Yes, but I wasn’t pretending to forge cheques. That’s what I was doing. And I was great at it. Conmen have to be quick on their feet; they have to be excellent liars. They don’t actually need to know how to fly planes.”

“So?”

“So, two truths and a lie, Carl.”

 

*

1974

The first time Carl left him alone with a room of agents, Frank had an urge to turn around and write his name in big letters on the board. ‘My name is Mr Abagnale and I’ll be your substitute Senior Agent today. Everybody open your books at chapter six.’

They don’t like him. Frank walks into the office and is treated to expressions ranging from mild scepticism all the way through to visible disgust. Carl’s own team don’t trust him with the money to buy coffee.

Frank never stole from a person, the way he sees it. He stole from banks and the airlines and more than a few hotels. Anyone who personally lost out, Frank tried to make sure they deserved it. He’s never lifted someone’s wallet or absconded with pocket change. Frank has boundaries – they’re just not the same as the ones everyone else lives by.

The agents looked at him, and Frank smiled. “I’ll bet some of you have questions.”

They stare. Fox folds his arms.

“No?” Frank challenges. “Three years chasing me, and there’s nothing you want to know?”

Amdursky says, “Agent Hanratty figured out all the important stuff.”

Frank nods. “I guess he did. Enough to catch me anyway.” In a way, he likes that they defend Carl. Frank had done real damage to Carl’s career, inadvertent though it had been, and he’s glad that catching him was enough to mend it.

After a moment, Fox says, “Why’d you pick paediatrics, when you had to invent a speciality?”

That’s an easy one. “You say you’re a doctor, people are always asking you to look at things. They’ve got a strain, or a sore back, or worse – there’s an emergency and you’re supposed to know how to deal with it. I said paediatrics so there’d be less chance of me getting caught.”

“And that worked?” someone else asks.

“It worked for long enough.”

Frank has always been good at talking – at holding the attention of a room. It’s like being a real actor, he guesses. He didn’t just watch the television shows for the lingo. He watched to find out how doctors behaved, how they walked and talked and how they used their hands. He copied all of that.

That’s what Frank has been doing all of his life, borrowing the lives of other people. You don’t need to care if you’re liked or not liked – it’s not about you - you just pick a part and stick with it. He’s always felt more at home in someone else’s skin.

 

*

1976

Frank says, one day out of the blue, “I would have married her, you know.”

Carl stares at him. For a moment he doesn’t know who they’re talking about. He figures it out and says, “Brenda Strong?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t a con, I mean. I meant to marry her. I would have, if you hadn’t followed her to the airport.”

They have never talked about it, but Carl always suspected that something in the girl’s face gave them away that afternoon. She had wanted so badly not to betray Frank, and hadn’t meant to do it when she did. Carl had felt a little badly about it, but what sort of a life would it have been for her?

“I know you would have,” Carl says.

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t change your name.”

 

*

1975

It’s a wet February. Frank goes to see the same movie five times, trying to stop his thoughts from drifting to Tahiti or Madrid.

Carl can tell, because Carl can always tell. He walks right into Frank’s office and says, “You really need to get out more. Meet some people.”

Frank raises his eyebrows. “I will if you will.”

“My itchy feet aren’t likely to lead to warrants for my arrest in a dozen countries.”

Frank concedes this point. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are. Pack a bag tomorrow, we’re going on a trip.”

“We’re- what?”

“Marsh wants you out at the Academy – you can chat to the trainees. Try and charm a few of them into wanting to work in financial crimes.”

“You usually have a lot of success with that?” Frank asks. Carl’s frustration with the calibre of field agents in his department is legendary. They have been getting better, if only because Carl is very quick to disabuse them of the notion that this is a simple assignment.

Carl makes to scowl at him. “No. But this year I have a trump card. I have you.”

“I’m not really…”

“You talked your way onto jet airplanes and out of federal custody. If nothing else, you can let them know that it’s about more than calculators and paper pushing. Do their jobs right, they can catch some interesting bad guys.”

“You still think I’m a bad guy, Carl?” Frank asks.

Carl shakes his hands in the air. “Ask again later. Maybe after I’ve successfully got you to and from the Academy without anyone climbing out of an airplane.”

“I did that once.”

Carl grins. “With that, once was always going to be enough.”

 

*

1970

 _Dear Carl_ , the letter starts, as though he’s writing to his father. _The weather here is great, and I’m making lots of friends. I have started in a new job, which allows me to travel and meet exciting people_. The warden had told Carl that Frank was delivering the mail - that he was a model prisoner. Carl can’t imagine that. _I hope you are well. Best wishes, Frank_.

Carl stares at the letter for a long while, trying to decipher a code. If it’s a taunt, it’s a subtle one. In the end, he has to go back to his first impression: the kid is lonely, and he has no one else. So he’s keeping himself amused writing picture postcard notes to the guy who put him in there.

Carl is supposed to be visiting Minnesota, chasing a new paperhanger. He calls Amdursky over. “I’m going to take an extra day on the way there. I have something to do in Atlanta.”

Amdursky looks at him knowingly but nods. “Sure.”

 

*

1975

“Two truths and a lie,” Frank says.

Carl sighs, and turns the page of his report. “You know I don’t do that.”

“You did lie to me once,” Frank says. “I was thinking about it.”

Carl looks at him with a serious expression. Frank imagines that Carl is probably thinking about Frank’s father. But Frank had a long time to reflect on that, and he doesn’t think it counts. At least, it wouldn’t have counted in Carl’s mind. It was the kind of lie you told a kid you didn’t want to upset, like saying that the dog had been sent to a farm out of state, or that Grandpa had gone to sleep. Carl hadn’t wanted to tell him that his father was dead with Frank so far from home.

Frank says, “You told the French police that you were gonna be the one to put the cuffs on me. But you gave them to me instead.”

“That wasn’t a lie to you,” Carl says. “That was a lie to the French police. And anyway, that was to avoid telling a bigger lie later.”

“Yeah? What was that?”

“I needed to tell them that you surrendered of your own accord. So I had to make that happen.”

Frank remembers that – Carl slipping the cuffs into his hand like a gift. He remembers Carl saying ‘don’t worry, don’t worry.’

Frank smiles. “You made the lie true. Well that’s better than I ever managed. I guess you win.”

“I guess so.”

 

*

1974

Frank lies all the time, even now.

Right now, Carl is watching him spin a very convincing story about the reasons Carl knew exactly what he looked like and who he was, without once mentioning that he had impersonated a government agent and humiliated Carl in the process.

Carl interrupts him and tells the story in bare facts; Frank looks horribly disappointed.

When the others leave to go back to their desks, Carl asks him, “Were you sparing my blushes, Frank?”

Frank shrugs. “I’m not so proud of that story.”

“But everything else you did was fine.”

“That was the only thing I did to you personally,” he says. “I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t have to.”

Carl raises an eyebrow. “You tried to escape from my custody twice,” he says. “Three if we count you nearly getting shot in Montrichard. But that’s the one that bothers you?” That was the one Frank had apologised for, though Carl hadn’t believed him at the time.

Frank says, “I knew it would look bad for you. And I had liked you.”

“And why was that?”

“I don’t know. Because you were smart enough to understand what I was doing? And because this government agent came in and stole your collar – or you thought he had - and you didn’t care as long as the bad guy got caught. You weren’t very much like me, I guess.”

“No,” Carl agrees. “The general consensus is that you’re much nicer than I am. Even if you are a criminal.” Frank gets along with people in ways Carl has never managed. Amdursky and Fox had been the slowest to come around, but even they have learnt to work with Frank now. He’s part of their team.

Frank says, “You’re better at other things.”

 

*

1978

Other people think that Carl is anti-social. They think that he’s a workaholic, and that he has no sense of humour and no tact. Some of these things are true some of the time, but Frank has never minded.

The first time Frank laughed at Carl, he caught the others staring. Apparently Carl doesn’t do jokes (he can’t tell them, Frank has discovered, at least not when he’s trying to.) But Carl makes Frank laugh – he understands the absurdity in what’s happened to the two of them.

Carl is not cruel, but he isn’t always nice. Frank remembers being laughed at that first year, with no one else to call and Carl realising. But he remembers the other year, the first Christmas Eve at the FBI, when Carl absently kicked out the extra chair and said, “You sticking around, kid?”

Frank had settled himself into it and nodded. “Beats going home and waiting for you to call.” He grinned, and Carl almost smiled back at him.

Now, Carl raps on the door of Frank’s office. “Agents with families head home for the holidays, remember?”

Frank puts the file away. “I told them you were coming, you know. They like it when you visit.”

“Frank…”

“You’re in charge now. Pick a couple of agents to stick around, and you and me can get out of here.”

“Frank.”

Frank walks into Carl’s office and picks up his coat and hat. He hands them to Carl, who turns the hat over a few times.

Frank waits. It’s Christmas, so he’s talking to Carl. It’s one of the few constants of the universe.

Carl reaches past Frank and turns off the light in the office. “Okay. Let’s go home.”


End file.
